The Next Great Adventure
by Taure
Summary: Harry sacrifices himself to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest expecting to die. Instead he wakes up in the Third Age of Middle Earth, lost and confused. Realistic crossover with canon Harry. No power-ups, elfling Harry or tenth walker. No slash.
1. One: Awakening

**Summary:** Harry sacrifices himself to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest expecting to die. Instead he wakes up in the Third Age of Middle Earth, lost and confused. Realistic crossover with canon Harry. No power-ups, elfling Harry or tenth walker. No slash.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. The Lord of the Rings belongs to the Tolkien Estate. I write this parody work for pleasure, not commercial gain, and claim no ownership of copyrighted materials belonging to others.

**Format:** The paragraphs in this story have been formatted to be read using the 1/2 reading option, which narrows the text in the centre of the page.

**The Next Great Adventure**

_By Taure_

**Chapter One: Awakening**

_Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear-_

_He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone._

Harry woke to the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. He froze and tried to keep his breathing shallow, his cheek resting on the cool earth of the forest floor. Somehow, miraculously, he had survived Voldemort's Killing Curse. But he was not out of danger yet: though he could hear nothing, Death Eaters surely remained nearby. How long had he been unconscious?

Heart thudding in his chest, he opened his eyes a fraction, just enough to peek out from beneath his eyelids. But when he saw where he was, he gasped and sat upright.

He was no longer in the Forbidden Forest, and there were no Death Eaters nearby. There wasn't _anybody_ nearby. He found himself alone on the summit of a grassy hillock, sitting in the shade of a tall tree, with a cool spring sun high in the sky. Around him was nothing but pristine countryside: in one direction was a line of rolling hills, in the other a river. He could not see a road or electrical pylon within miles.

And that was when Harry realised - he could _see_. He patted his face in disbelief, but his hands confirmed what his eyes told him, for they found no evidence of his glasses. For a moment he was at a complete loss. He knew of no magic that could heal the eyes so completely, but the truth could not be denied. Was this some side-effect of Voldemort's Killing Curse?

He rubbed his scar in thought; a well-practiced movement. But this time it was different. For the first time in years Harry could feel nothing coming from his scar. No pain, no strange emotions, not even a mild tingling. The plan had worked. The horcrux was gone.

A laugh bubbled out of him, a wide grin on his face, and he whooped for joy, the sound of it carrying across the landscape. It was only now that Harry realised what a burden his scar had been.

_Dumbledore!_ He'd always kept his cards so close to his chest, plans ravelled within plans. But once again Harry's trust in him had been repaid, for here he was, alive and free of Voldemort's horcrux.

The thought of Voldemort brought him up short. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been more than a few hours. The attack on Hogwarts would still be underway, and his friends needed him. He spun on the spot, his mind fixed on the castle, but the apparition failed. Harry stumbled in surprise, his foot barely missing his glasses on the ground. He frowned and picked them up, holding the lenses to his eyes. He felt a sharp pain and yanked them away.

"So that's what Hermione meant…" he muttered, understanding now the feeling she described when she wore his glasses. He shrugged and placed them in his mokeskin pouch, before reaching inside his robes for the hawthorn wand.

It wasn't there. His heart jumped in panic and he began to frantically pat himself down, convinced that he'd find his wand somewhere, but his surety quickly gave way to doubt and then despair. It was gone. Worse, his invisibility cloak had also disappeared, and neither of them could be found on the ground around him, though he looped around the tree four times before admitting it.

Harry tried to keep the panic at bay. It was only Malfoy's wand, after all. But the loss of his cloak hit him hard indeed. Had the Death Eaters taken it? Why, then, would they have left him the mokeskin pouch? And why bring him here - wherever he was? Nothing was making any sense.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose, searching for that feeling of detached control he had discovered when digging Dobby's grave. His grasp of occlumency had been dearly bought, yet once gained it was easily recalled.

His priority was to return to Hogwarts as soon as possible, but he couldn't apparate without a wand. He was clearly stranded far from any civilisation, and wizards were rare at the best of times. The chances of stumbling across one in the wilderness were thin. That meant he'd have to take a more direct approach. A more dangerous one.

"Voldemort," he said, deciding on it before he could second-guess himself. He tensed, ready to charge at the first wizard to apparate in, but no Snatchers came. Five minutes passed, and then ten, and still no Snatchers arrived. Were they all at Hogwarts, fighting for Voldemort?

Harry sighed and looked around. There was nothing for it: he would have to walk, though it would take him far too long. Once he found a town he could take Muggle transportation to London, and then to Grimmauld Place. He would simply have to hope that the house was not being watched.

He chose the river almost on a whim, but there was some reason to it, because Harry was distinctly aware that he had neither food nor water. At least along the river he would have plenty of the latter. He only hoped it wasn't too far before he found a road or town, because without a wand he had few survival skills in the wild.

It must have taken Harry at least an hour to reach the river, though he wasn't wearing a watch so he couldn't know for sure. He approached the tree-lined bank to the sound of water rushing over rocks, and he scrambled down to get a closer look. The river was wide but shallow, not even deep enough to reach his knee, and fast moving.

His stomach rumbled and Harry knelt to drink, cupping his hands into the water and bringing it up to his face. It was icy cold, but it was all Harry had so he drank until he could drink no more, trying to pretend the sloshing fullness in his stomach was the result of food. After a year of camping with minimal supplies this was not unfamiliar.

Harry looked up and down stream, trying to decide which way to go next. "Eenie, meenie, miny, mo," he muttered, before choosing downstream. There were more towns by the coast, he figured, and the walking would be easier going downhill.

He walked and walked, quickly at first, but slowing to a steady plod when it became clear that it was going to take him some time. Every so often a wind picked up, gathering speed across the wild fields, but fortunately the air was warmer than Harry expected. In fact, it was unusually warm for May, and after another break for water Harry took off his robe, leaving himself in just his jeans and t-shirt. Perhaps his luck was turning.

But as the day wore on and the sun lowered in the sky, a sinking feeling settled in somewhere behind Harry's empty stomach. Despite having travelled miles, the land looked as empty as ever. If he didn't find somewhere soon he was going to have to camp, this time with no tent, no food, and no wand.

He kept walking even as the sun was setting, determined to find shelter, but once it was dark Harry had to admit it to himself: he would be sleeping beneath the stars that night. And so he found a particularly large tree and settled himself at its base, his back against the trunk.

As soon as he did, the cumulative strain of the day hit him. He had fought, he had seen friends die, and he had walked for miles after being stranded in the middle of nowhere. He was hungry, wandless, and confused, not to mention getting cold now that the sun had set. He tugged his robe closer around himself, trying to sink into it further, but the cotton was thin and not designed for such weather.

But worst of all he was worried for his friends at Hogwarts. Would the battle be over by now? Or would they still be fighting, the defences holding out? Harry thought back to his last instruction to Neville, telling him to kill Nagini. With Harry's connection to Voldemort broken, there was no way to know if he'd succeeded. For all Harry knew, Voldemort was already dead and the celebrations had begun, with the Boy Who Lived presumed dead in the forest. But no - Ron and Hermione would not forsake him. They, at least, would insist on finding him, if only to bring back his body.

That was, of course, assuming Voldemort was dead. A sudden burst of frustration took Harry and he slammed his fist down on the ground, a stick snapping beneath it. _Assuming Voldemort was dead_. That was not an assumption he could make.

The wind blew hard and he shivered. It was going to be a long, terrible night. If only he could…

He stared at the broken stick and wondered. _Could he?_ There was only one way to be sure. He focused on the stick, concentrating as hard as he could, thinking of fire and heat, almost hearing the roar of Goyle's Fiendfyre.

He pointed his finger at the stick. "_Incendio!"_

Nothing happened.

A sob almost escaped him, a thick, choking feeling in his throat, but he suppressed it with clenched fists. He had fought basilisks and dragons. He had faced Voldemort again and again. He could endure a night of cold.

It took many restless hours for sleep to take him, the cold and the hardness of the ground conspiring to keep him awake, but eventually his exhaustion beat his discomfort and the darkness took him.

* * *

><p>Harry did not sleep for long. He came to before the sun had even risen, its coming nothing more than a pale glow on the horizon. A chill had taken him while he slept, stiffening his limbs and making his robes damp. Every part of him ached. He got to his feet with a groan, far too uncomfortable to wait for the sun. Walking would hopefully warm him up.<p>

He was too miserable to appreciate the beauty of the sunrise, though he did welcome the first warmth of its rays after half an hour of walking. Had he been a Muggle, Harry had no doubt that the night would have left him deeply unwell, but wizards were luckily made of hardier stuff. Once the sun was up he quickly shook off the cold, once again taking off his robe as he found himself sweating.

But even a wizard's endurance had its limits. His hunger had now become an all-consuming need, almost two days having passed since he last ate at Hogwarts, and Harry found himself searching the banks for anything edible: mushrooms, berries, even flowers. Nothing presented itself. In a moment of insanity he tried to eat a leaf, but it was so bitter that he spat it out.

His pace, so determined when he had begun, now slowed to an amble. He lacked the energy for anything more. The river was getting deeper and quieter, he noticed idly. Few rocks were now large enough to break the surface of the water, making it look almost still.

Harry fell into a deep melancholy as the world once again began to darken, resigning himself to another night of cold and hunger. But this time he was determined to be better prepared, and so, while he still had the light, he searched the area for a camping spot. He found a good tree with a hollowed trunk to protect him from the wind, then gathered some sticks for a fire.

"_Incendio!_" he tried once more, pointing his finger at the pile of sticks, but once again nothing happened. He made several attempts, each time experimenting with a different technique. He even tried writing the rune for fire - one of the few runes he knew - into the dirt, but that too failed.

He reached inside the mokeskin pouch for the pieces of his broken wand. He knew from his second year how dangerous such things could be, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He took the larger piece and pointed it at the sticks.

"_Incendio!"_

Sparks flew, blinding him with their sudden brightness, and Harry dropped the wand with a gasp of pain. But not all of the sparks shot into his hand, and some of them indeed landed on the sticks, which burst into sudden flame. The heat of the fire washed over Harry immediately, a small thrill of victory going through him despite his injury. He cradled his burnt hand and wiggled his fingers, sucking air through his teeth as the burn throbbed.

_The river!_

He rushed to the bank and plunged his hand into the cool water, breathing out in deep satisfaction as some of the throbbing faded. For several minutes he crouched there, swirling his hand through the water. It was not healed, not by a long stretch, but the worst of the pain seemed to have passed.

He returned to his fire, gathering more sticks for it along the way. For quite some time Harry simply stared into the flames crackling in the dark, basking in the waves of warmth emanating outwards. It was ironic, he thought, that this - one of the simplest spells he knew - was now also one of the most satisfying pieces of magic he had ever performed.

He wondered what everyone would be doing at Hogwarts now. It was impossible to know. Perhaps the halls were empty but for the bodies of all his friends. Perhaps they were enjoying a rich feast, tables loaded with glistening roast meats, deep savoury pies and hearty casseroles.

And then Harry realised: he didn't _need_ to guess. He took off his mokeskin pouch and emptied its contents onto the ground, quickly picking up the Marauder's map.

"I solemnly swear -"

He paused, staring at the map. It was already active. That was strange… he didn't remember leaving it open. But he shrugged and flattened it out, careful to avoid placing it too close to the fire, and searched the Great Hall.

There wasn't anyone there. In fact, there wasn't anyone _anywhere_, not in all of Hogwarts. Harry's heart sank. There was only one explanation: Voldemort had killed everyone.

"Mischief managed," he said, unable to bear the sight of it. But nothing happened. "Mischief managed," he repeated, firmer this time, tapping his finger against the paper. No response.

Was it damaged somehow? Was that why it wasn't showing anyone within Hogwarts? Harry could only hope so - hope that Voldemort's Killing Curse had somehow also broken the Marauder's map. The alternative was too terrible to imagine.

He put the map back into the pouch and turned to his other possessions, lingering over them as he returned them. First went the letter his mother had written to Sirius, the photograph of baby Harry riding his toy broomstick folded inside. Next went his glasses, which he still hadn't needed. A handful of silver sickles and bronze knuts followed, still in there after over a year. He hadn't had much opportunity to spend money recently. Then, carefully, he replaced the shards of his broken wand and the fake locket left for Voldemort by Regulus Black.

That left the snitch and the broken shard of Sirius' two-way mirror. He picked up the latter, wondering with a flash of hope if he might find Aberforth Dumbledore on the other end, but it reflected only his own face. Harry frowned. It wasn't meant to do that. Had the two-way connection of the mirror also been broken by Voldemort's spell?

Lastly he picked up the snitch. It was a trivial thing, completely useless to him now, but it saddened him to think of its magic as dead. He flicked it into the air, testing it, and to his surprise a pair of wings sprung from its sides, beating rapidly with its distinctive whirring sound. Harry stared at it hovering in front of his face, utterly confused. How had the magic of the snitch survived when the map and mirror had failed?

Harry doubted even Hermione could have told him. This was Defence Against the Dark Arts stuff, and Harry knew almost everything there was to know about the Killing Curse. It wasn't supposed to have any effect on enchantments, of that he was certain. The curse passed through shields, but it didn't break them. So the question was not why the snitch still worked, but why the map and mirror had failed.

Harry had no answer for that. He grabbed the snitch from the air and put it back in the pouch. He was still thinking on the problem when he fell asleep.

* * *

><p>The fire had long died by the time Harry woke, and so dawn was once again a cold and stiff affair. He'd fallen asleep with his head at an awkward angle and was rewarded now with a crick in his neck. His burnt palm was red and and still pulsed in pain, but it was not quite as bad as the night before.<p>

Worryingly, his hunger had faded somewhat. Harry knew that was not a good sign, and when he stood up he had to steady himself against the tree until the world stopped spinning. He was weakening quickly. Soon his magic would weaken also, if it hadn't already begun to do so, and once that happened the morning chills would become far more dangerous. With weak magic he would be as vulnerable to sickness as any Muggle. He'd seen it again and again at Hogwarts, every year at exam time when Madam Pomfrey was forced to hand out Pepper-Up potions. The stress of the exams weakened the magic.

He had to find a settlement before that happened.

He set off with new determination, driven now not by worry for his friends but fear for himself. It was only just occurring to Harry that he might _not_ find his way back home; there was a real possibility that he could die out here in the wild. As before he took his robes off around midday, wrinkling his nose at the smell of old dried sweat that clung to him. He had not washed for days and his clothes were smudged with grass and dirt stains.

But he could not waste energy washing in the river, nor afford to get unnecessarily cold. He would just have to hope that, when he found a road, Muggles would not be put off by the smell of him.

Harry walked automatically, still following the sinuous winding of the river, and his mind drifted as he went, lost in a kind of wakeful dreaming. And so it was that he had already climbed over the low stone wall when he stopped and turned to look at it.

_At last!_

It wasn't much: the type of old, crumbling wall which divided one farmer's fields from the next, waist high and stretching off into the distance. But it was enough: where there was a wall, there was a wall-maker. Harry had found civilisation.

The enclosed field in which he found himself was large and dotted with groups of sheep munching on the grass. On the far side he could see a wooden gate, and beyond that a dirt path leading through another field and into some trees.

Harry set off with a new spring in his step, his mind suddenly focused by the near-achievement of his goal. The Muggles would no doubt think him strange, coming out of nowhere wearing dirty and smelly clothes, a robe over his arm, but they could at least point him in the direction of a main road. He would have to take a risk and call the Knight Bus, because no Muggle was going to accept his wizarding money. The chance of capture was high, but Harry needed food urgently.

He was nearing the trees when he saw the man. He was coming down the pathway with a pair of dogs trotting beside him, and was dressed very strangely, even more so than Harry. He wore a loose white shirt, long enough that it hung to mid-thigh. It was tied around his waist with a belt and the sleeves were rolled up. And he didn't wear trousers but tight brown breeches, which were tucked into tall boots.

All in all he looked several hundred years out of place. Had Harry somehow stumbled into an eccentric wizard?

"Hello!" Harry called, waving his hand to attract the stranger's attention. The man froze and his dogs erupted into barks, bounding towards him. Harry kept walking forward at a steady pace, trying not to think about Ripper. He needn't have worried, for before the dogs reached him the man seemed to recover from the shock of seeing Harry and whistled, summoning the dogs back towards him.

As Harry got closer he was struck by how much taller he was than the stranger, who barely reached eye-height. Harry was by no means short, coming in at a respectable five foot ten, but it was rare for him to tower over a grown man. Harry might have thought him a child, but for his thick brown beard.

"Hello," Harry repeated once he was close enough for talking, and he held out his hand to shake. "I'm Harry Potter."

The man looked down at his hand, then back up with a frown. He seemed to be fascinated by Harry's clothes.

"Er, right," Harry said, withdrawing his hand, "sorry for barging in on you like this, but I'm a bit lost. Is there a town near here? Or a road?"

The man said something, but it wasn't English.

"Ah," Harry said, his shoulders slumping as the hope of an easy end to his problems died. "Bugger. I don't suppose you speak any English, do you? _Eng-lish_."

The man said something again, louder this time, and Harry got the impression he was annoyed. "What language is that anyway?" he said, mostly to himself. "Welsh? Gaelic?"

The man pulled out a crude knife and Harry stiffened, suddenly tensing, ready for a fight. The man raised the knife threateningly, then with his free hand made a shooing motion.

"You want me off your land?" Harry asked, holding up his own hands in a placating gesture. This was _not_ going well. This man was his escape from this wilderness. An idea occurred to Harry. Slowly, as if to show no trickery on his part, Harry reached a finger and thumb into the pouch hanging from his neck, making sure not to let them disappear too far inside.

He withdrew a silver sickle and the man's eyebrows shot up. He lowered his knife.

"That's more like it," Harry said, smiling now. With one hand he held the coin aloft, and with the other he began a game of charades: first he mimed spooning food into his mouth, then he rubbed his arm as if washing it, before finally resting his head on his hand as if it were a pillow.

The man's eyes narrowed and he made a sharp beckoning motion towards the coin. Harry reached out and gave it to him, and the man held it up to his eye, examining it closely before sniffing, then scraping it with a tooth. He seemed satisfied, because he made a gruff noise before jerking his head back the direction he had come, indicating that Harry should follow him.

"Yes!" Harry said, relief flooding through him, for he had been unsure if the strange Muggle would accept his currency. As they walked up the path and into the trees, Harry tried to introduce himself.

"Harry," he said, pointing his finger at his chest. "Har-ry." Then he pointed at the man. "You?"

"_Andorn_," he replied, but said no more.

They entered a large clearing in the trees, in the midst of which was a single-story stone cottage with a thatched roof. It was small, but it looked cosy and quite solid. Andorn shouted something, making Harry jump, and a moment later a woman in an old-fashioned dress bustled out of the cottage door, frowning when she saw Harry. She was dark-haired and short like Andon, but somewhat younger.

The pair of them exchanged words as they approached the door. From the way they spoke, Harry supposed they were married. When they reached his wife, Andorn passed her the silver coin. The woman examined it even closer than Andorn had, then looked at Harry, taking note of his height and clothes. Hesitantly, she reached out for his robe, still slung over his arm. Bemused, Harry let her take it, but when she felt the fabric she gasped and started to speak rapidly at her husband.

Harry had the vague impression that she was telling him off. And then she turned back to Harry and gave him a small curtsey. To Harry's surprise Andorn followed suit, inclining his head in a little bow.

"Er, that's really not necessary," Harry said, now very confused and slightly uncomfortable. Had they recognised him? But even Dobby didn't _bow_ to him.

The woman said something to Andorn, cocking her head, but he simply shrugged. And then she waved him away and led Harry inside.

The cottage was a rustic affair. Most of its space was taken up by a single dark room with a stone floor, dominated by a large hearth in which a fire was already lit, the smoke disappearing up the chimney. Next to the fire was a portable metal tub, and over it a large cooking pot. The walls were covered by drapings, and the sparse furniture was all made of wood. A large table sat in the centre of the room, a bench either side of it, and a few cabinets were dotted around.

The few windows were covered with wooden shutters, not glass, and there were no interior doors leading to the two separate rooms. Instead the doorways were blocked with curtains.

The woman was watching Harry carefully and he was suddenly reminded of his first visit to the Weasleys. He smiled encouragingly, and the woman smiled back. She had a missing front tooth, Harry noticed.

"Mireth," she said, pointing to herself.

"Harry," he replied with a smile.

She said something, but Harry didn't understand. He tried to communicate with a shrug. Mireth looked frustrated, but pointed to the tub.

"A bath?" Harry said, and he nodded his head, hoping that she understood that. Apparently she did, for Mireth beckoned him over and, with his help, hefted the pot from above the fire. It was already filled with hot water, and Harry felt briefly guilty for interrupting whatever they were using it for. Together they poured the water into the tub, though it didn't even fill it half way.

Mireth said something, then turned her back to him. Was she waiting for him to change? Harry supposed so, and he tried to ignore his embarrassment as he quickly stripped off and got into the bath, his knees pulled up to his chest.

Mireth turned back around, picked up his discarded clothes and, before he could say anything, bustled off with them, leaving the house by the back door. Harry was left alone with his Muggle trainers and mokeskin pouch.

As he washed himself (with difficulty), Harry wondered who these people were. Clearly they lived without any kind of technology, which made him think they were wizards, but there was no sign of magic in their house. They seemed incredibly poor, though here and there, now he had the chance to look closer, he could see signs of greater wealth. A lute rested on top of a cabinet, and a metal lantern hung from the ceiling.

Were they perhaps squibs who had rejected the Muggle world? Such an idea seemed absurd to Harry, but he wouldn't put it past families like the Blacks and Malfoys to leave their squib children living like this. But then there was their strange language. Surely he wasn't in Scotland or Wales, for anyone living there would know at least some English.

And that made him worry that he was in some foreign country. But that made little sense either, because he could think of no country where people lived like this. Parts of Africa, perhaps, but these people were very much not African.

He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Eventually, as the water began to cool, Mireth returned with a rough towel and a change of clothes, which must have been Andorn's. Harry tried to use gestures to ask where his own clothes were, pointing first at the clothes then himself. Eventually the woman realised what he was asking and mimed a scrubbing action. Harry smiled in thanks, for he hadn't asked for them to clean his clothes, and took the towel.

Once again Mireth turned around so he could change, and when she turned back she clapped her hands at the sight of him wearing her husband's clothes. They didn't fit well at all, but they were dry and clean. And Harry had to admit, he felt much better. All he needed now was some food…

They didn't eat until much later, because Mireth still needed to begin cooking. She set Harry down at the table and he watched as she went about her business, chopping vegetables with a steel knife, fetching herbs from the garden and finally bringing in what looked like a rabbit carcass. She butchered it quite efficiently and added it to the pot. The final ingredient was salt, which Mireth unveiled carefully, taking a block of it wrapped in cloth from a cabinet.

Andorn returned before the food was ready and sat himself opposite Harry, at first attempting some gruff conversation before quickly giving up. Finally, just as the sun was setting, it was time to eat. Mireth set out bread, then pewter bowls and spoons before ladling each of them a large portion of broth. Meanwhile, Andorn left for one of the other rooms and came back with three flagons of ale.

They ate in a silence broken only by the occasional word from Andorn and Mireth. The latter especially seemed concerned that Harry should enjoy his meal, and he made sure to smile at her regularly. In truth it was nothing special, the broth thin and the rabbit stringy, but after his long hunger it tasted like the best Hogwarts feast. His stomach tightened and rumbled as the first food in days hit it, but luckily he managed to keep it down.

When they were finished, Mireth cleared the bowls away and, once everything was washed, they moved to sit in front of the fire. Andorn played his lute and Mireth sang softly. She had quite a beautiful voice, Harry thought. Soon enough he began to drift into sleep, the exhaustion of the last few days catching up with him now that he was safe, warm, clean and full.

He was barely aware of being guided to a straw bed covered in animal pelts, and then he was asleep.


	2. Two: Duirro

**Summary:** Harry sacrifices himself to Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest expecting to die. Instead he wakes up in the Third Age of Middle Earth, lost and confused. Realistic crossover with canon Harry. No power-ups, elfling Harry or tenth walker. No slash.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. The Lord of the Rings belongs to the Tolkien Estate. I write this parody work for pleasure, not commercial gain, and claim no ownership of copyrighted materials belonging to others.

**Format:** The paragraphs in this story have been formatted to be read using the 1/2 reading option, which narrows the text in the centre of the page.

**The Next Great Adventure**

_By Taure_

**Chapter Two: Duirro**

Andorn and Mireth rose with the dawn, stirring Harry with the sounds of their bustling activity. He was feeling amazingly refreshed, though hungry again, and he entered the living room with a cheery wave. Mireth curtsied and pointed towards the now-extinguished fire, where Harry saw his clothes hanging.

He nodded to her in thanks before taking them, returning to his room to change. His clothes smelt of smoke, but Harry was simply glad that they were dry and clean. His trip to the privy was less welcome, as it was nothing more than a hole in the ground within a ramshackle shed, but he held his breath and finished up as quickly as he could.

Andorn was waiting for him when he returned to the house, and after some miming Harry understood that he was to accompany him. Where they were going Harry couldn't guess, but he was keen to reach a proper road so that he could summon the Knight Bus.

Harry had been expecting to head back the way they had arrived, but instead Andorn led him out of the clearing by a different path. It took them downhill through the woods, the way becoming increasingly steep as they went. They didn't even try to speak, and Harry took the time to enjoy the peacefulness of that place, full of the sounds of nature.

Soon enough they came to a larger road, though it was little more than a ledge cut into the side of the hill, a steep drop on the other side. From that vantage point Harry could see for miles around. The river made its appearance again, now running rapidly at the base of the slope, and the road snaked its way down the side of the hill towards it.

And there, where the road and river met in the distance, a small village sat. It was a quaint place, the kind you might see on a Christmas card. At its end was a bridge, before which were arranged thirty or so buildings, and on the other side of the river there was a squat tower made of stone.

At last, Harry had found true civilisation. The dirt road barely deserved the name, but Harry flung his right hand into the air, hoping the Knight Bus would come. But there was no loud bang and no purple bus appeared.

Andorn seemed to take Harry's gesture as a question, for he nodded in response. "Duirro," he said, pointing to the village.

"Duirro?" Harry asked, "I'm guessing that's its name…"

"Duirro," Andorn repeated, seemingly satisfied.

"And what country is this?" said Harry, waving his arm across the vista before them. Andorn frowned in confusion and Harry sighed.

"Andorn," Harry said, pointing at him, then he pointed at the town. "Duirro." Next he repeated his previous gesture, trying to indicate the whole country.

A look of realisation crossed Andorn's face. "Lebennin," he said, copying Harry's movement.

"Lebanon?" Harry asked, "isn't that in the Middle East?" He would be the first to admit that his geography was quite rusty, but even he was moderately sure that the Middle East was not so green as this place.

Oblivious to Harry's confusion, Andorn started towards the village, moving now at a brisk pace. Even so it was at least an hour's walk before they reached the bottom of the hill, then another twenty minutes to the village. It was as they passed the first house that Harry realised something truly strange was going on.

Everyone in the village was like Andorn and Mireth. They were dressed simply, the women in long dresses with low-cut bodices, the men in shirts and breeches. A few men were leading horses down the thoroughfare, which was lined on both sides with crooked timber-framed buildings made of wattle and daub. They were two stories tall, with slate roofs and glass in the windows, but nonetheless this place was far from the modern town he was expecting.

It seemed that Andorn and Mireth were not, in fact, a strange, rustic couple who rejected technology. It was Harry who was strange here, with his denim jeans and cotton t-shirt. Even his robe was out of place, far too impractical for this rustic life.

Understanding came upon Harry with the gradual inevitability of the rising tide, though he resisted it. There was no comfort in this knowledge. The lack of technology, the strange clothes, even how tall he was compared to many of the villagers… somehow, he had travelled backwards in time, and not just a few hours but _centuries_, all without a time-turner.

He was screwed.

Andorn brought him to a large building, taller and longer than the others. Its three stories leaned slightly over the road and it had many windows. A worn sign hung over the sturdy oak door, a silver crown painted upon it with an unfamiliar runic script below. Andorn jabbed his finger towards Harry's pouch, then at the inn.

Still dazed from the thought of time travel, Harry merely nodded. He couldn't have expected Andorn to take care of him, though he now realised he needed it more than ever. But he had imposed on their kindness long enough. He had a few coins, and valuables he could sell if need be, though he was loath to part with the only connections to his past. He would stay at the inn until he figured out how to find the wizards of this time.

"Thank you," he said, bowing his head as these people seemed to do. Andorn returned the bow, clapped him on the arm and walked off.

Harry opened the door and entered the front hall of the inn. There was no one at the welcome desk, but a small bell sat on the bar, which he picked up and rang. A door swung open behind the desk and a middle-aged woman stepped out of a large, smoky kitchen.

She said something to him, a welcome no doubt, then turned to a large ledger and picked up a quill.

"I don't speak your language," Harry said, getting used to the routine, "but I have money and I'd like a room." He took a sickle out of his pouch and showed it to the woman, before miming sleeping and eating.

The innkeeper shouted something back into the kitchen, then took the coin and weighed it in her hand. She held up three fingers.

"Three sickles?" Harry said, despairing, for three sickles was all he had left. Not seeing any other option, he went to get another coin, but the woman shook her hand vigorously. Harry frowned. She let out a sigh of frustration, then copied his mime for sleep, then repeated it twice.

"Oh," said Harry, "one sickle buys me three nights? That's better." He nodded his acceptance just as a young woman came out of the kitchen. Red-haired and pale-skinned, she looked to be a couple years younger than him. She curtsied with a quick bob, said something then started walking towards the staircase.

Harry followed her hesitantly, looking back to the innkeeper to check he was doing the right thing. At her nod of encouragement he hurried to follow his guide, the wooden stairs creaking with each step.

The girl was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. "Hi," he said, then tapped his chest. "Harry."

She blushed and ducked her head, before pointing at her own chest (on which Harry's eyes only lingered a moment) and saying "Roseth."

She led him down a long, narrow corridor, pulled out a key and unlocked a door. The room was small but comfortable-looking, with its own fireplace and a large bed with a proper mattress.

"Looks good," said Harry, more to fill the silence than anything else, and he nodded to get the message across. Roseth curtsied again, put the key on the mantelpiece and left.

Harry slumped down on the bed as soon as she was gone, putting his head in his hands. Time travel… it was impossible, but undeniable. He was stuck in the past, for he knew of no way to get back to the present other than to _live_ your way there. Wizards lived a long time, but not _that_ long.

He briefly entertained the notion of finding Nicolas Flamel before dismissing it as foolishness. For all he knew Flamel was yet to be born… he had no idea _when_ he was in time. He suddenly wished that he had paid more attention in History. If Hermione had been with him, she could have simply looked at the feather-filled bed and said something like "Of course, feather beds weren't invented until the seventeenth century," but Harry had no such skill.

Even if he found wizards, what then? If the Department of Mysteries still existed in this time, did they have the ability to send people hundreds of years into the future? Harry doubted it. He would never see his friends again. He would never see Ginny again. He would never see Voldemort defeated.

"Stop it," Harry said, clenching his fists and taking a deep breath. He would not fall apart, not now. He needed to keep a cool head and come up with a plan. He didn't know what powerful wizards existed in this time - maybe one of them could help him. Who knew, Rowena Ravenclaw herself might still be alive. Surely she would know what to do.

Calmed, and deciding that his hunger was affecting him, Harry went downstairs in search of food.

The inn's common room was near the front entrance. It was a spacious room with several hearths, a stone floor and tables that looked like picnic benches. There were a surprising number of customers too, most of them clustered around the bar. The majority were men dressed like Andorn, no doubt farmers of some kind, but one or two of them had finer clothes, with colourful waistcoats and smart coats. Others were dressed for travelling, their dark cloaks wrapped around tunics.

All of them paused when Harry entered, turning to look at the strangely dressed foreigner. He took a seat at one of the tables and looked around, wondering how he would go about ordering food. He needn't have worried. A serving girl bustled over with bread, ale and a bowl of soup.

He ate slowly, wary of overeating on an empty stomach, and pondered his location. As if being sent back in time was not enough, he had also been displaced in space. Harry had no idea how a Killing Curse could do such a thing. Had Voldemort done something else to him while he was unconscious? Yet that made little sense: Harry could think of no possible motivation for Voldemort to send him into the past, where he could potentially wreak havoc on the future. If he had truly been at Voldemort's mercy, why not simply kill him?

Harry sipped at the ale. He decided that thinking himself in circles about the _how_ was a lost cause. In many ways it didn't matter. He _was_ here, and his priority was the future. He needed to know where he was before he could move forward. He was fairly sure he was in Europe, but if he was outside of Britain he would need to return there, where he knew the lie of the land. Diagon Alley was ancient, as was Hogwarts. Even centuries in the past they should still exist.

A flash of red caught his eye and he looked up to see that Roseth had appeared at the bar, pulling another pint for one of the patrons. Harry caught her eye and she blushed again. An idea occurred to him and he waved her over. She came out from behind the bar and approached him, wiping her hands against her dress.

"Hi, Roseth," Harry said, and he pointed to the seat opposite him.

She sat down. "Hi, Harry," Roseth replied, and Harry grinned. It was only a single word, badly pronounced, but it was a powerful thing to hear your own language. Still, if he was going to be among these people for some time then it would be helpful if he learnt a few words.

He pointed to the bread. "What do you call this?"

Roseth moved to stand, maybe thinking Harry wanted more, and he waved his hands quickly for her to stay. "No, not more bread," he said, frowning. "How about this…" He pointed to himself. "Harry." He pointed at her. "Roseth." Then he pointed to the bread.

Roseth giggled, covering her mouth with her hand, but she seemed to realise what he wanted. "Bastun," she said, pointing to the bread. Then she pointed to the ale. "Hîm."

"Bastun," Harry repeated, "hîm."

"Ma!" Roseth said, clapping happily, before teaching him more words: for soup, for table, for cup and bowl. Each time he got a new word Roseth would again exclaim "ma!"

Then Harry mimed a writing action, scribbling an imaginary quill across the table. Roseth said a word, but Harry shook his head. He didn't want to know the word, he wanted to _do _it. He pointed to himself, then repeated his pretend writing.

"Ai!" said Roseth, and she rushed off back towards the entrance. She returned not a minute later, carrying a sheaf of parchment, a quill and some ink.

"Ma," Harry said when she put them down in front of him. Roseth grinned at his developing vocabulary.

Fortunately, Harry was well-practiced in the use of a quill and he was quickly able to draw a crude but recognisable map of Europe, labelling a few major cities in English. Roseth watched him in fascination. When he was done, he waved his arm in a grand gesture and said "Lebanon."

Roseth giggled and shook her head. "Lebennin," she corrected, and made Harry repeat it until he got it right.

"Lebennin," Harry said, then he showed her the map, moving his finger around it. "Where Lebennin?"

She cocked her head and frowned, then moved the map this way and that, even turning it upside-down. Finally, she looked at him and shook her head. "Ú Lebennin sí."

Harry sighed, his good idea coming crashing down around him. Clearly Roseth had never seen a map of Europe before. He shouldn't have been surprised - when had the first good maps appeared? Even when they had, no doubt they weren't available to barmaids.

Someone shouted Roseth's name. Her eyes widened and she scurried away with a hurried wave. Harry watched her go in amusement, the goings on of the inn distracting him momentarily from his worried thoughts.

Just _where_ was he?

* * *

><p>The comfort of the inn was a welcome relief from Harry's days in the wilderness. A servant came in the evening to light the fire in his room, and the next morning they brought a tub followed by buckets of steaming hot water. After that he dressed and went back down to the common room, where he was given a breakfast of buttered bread, an apple and some water.<p>

He was halfway out the door, intending to explore the village, when he heard his name.

"Harry!" Roseth called, making a racket as she ran down the stairs. She followed him outside and said something to him in her language, then held out her left arm.

"Er, okay," Harry said, hesitantly looping his arm through hers. It was all rather old-fashioned, and he was worried that Roseth was getting the wrong idea, but she was the closest thing to a friend he had in Duirro. He didn't want to offend her.

She led him off with a tug on his arm, speaking to him cheerfully, though she surely knew he couldn't understand a word. As they walked down the thoroughfare she pointed to the various houses, many of which doubled up as shops. One had a sign outside bearing a picture of a candle, another was clearly a carpenter's workshop.

Soon enough they approached the bridge and the road broadened out into a cobbled semi-circle, home to Duirro's market. The nicest houses in the village lined its edge and the air was filled with the sounds of bartering and children playing. Most of the stalls were selling vegetables and grains, but here and there Harry saw meat and fish, herbs and spices. There was even one dark-skinned merchant who looked like he was selling coffee beans and oranges, though few approached him.

People must have come from far and wide to attend, because the crowd was larger than such a small village could have provided. Roseth let Harry wander around the stalls, satisfying his curiosity, before she pointed to the bridge.

"You want to go over?" Harry said, raising his eyebrows. There wasn't much on the other side, but she insisted and so Harry followed, noticing a blacksmith's sitting right next to the river, its water wheel turning steadily with the echoes of hammering coming from within.

The road turned to the right on the other side of the bridge, following the river south, but before the turn it passed beneath the stone tower Harry had seen on his first approach to Duirro. It was only five stories tall yet quite wide, the result making it look like it had been squashed. There were no windows on the first two floors, and only narrow slits above that.

Roseth took him towards it, chattering all the way up the slope towards its arched entrance, a very solid wooden door reinforced with metal bars. It swung open as they approached and a man came out, his arms spread wide in greeting.

This man was not like the other villagers. He was tall, well over six feet, with long black hair and a clean-shaven face. He wore dark blue robes beneath a fur-lined cloak, which spread grandly behind him as he raised his arms. A pair of men followed behind, both of them lightly armoured and carrying swords at their sides.

Roseth curtsied deeply, far more than she did for Harry, and he followed her lead, bowing and hoping he didn't look too ridiculous. The man said something, waving his hand, and he embraced Roseth with surprising warmth. Then he turned to Harry and held out his arm. Harry went to shake hands, but found himself clasping forearms with the man, who rested his free hand on Harry's shoulder. He said something as he stepped back, possibly a question, and Harry was forced to once again explain.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you," he said, and the man's eyebrows rose when he heard Harry's words. He turned to Roseth in question, and she said something to him, no doubt explaining that Harry was a foreigner.

He turned back to Harry and tried speaking again, this time using a different language, one with much softer sounds. Harry grimaced and shook his head again, making the man frown. He paused for a moment, then gestured for them to follow him into the tower.

The entrance hall was airy and high-ceilinged, lit by a huge fire and a number of torches in wall-brackets. There was a painting of a noble-looking man above the fire, and opposite them a wide staircase curved out of sight. Weaponry of all types hung on the walls, interspersed with shields of varying heraldry.

They followed their host through a side door beneath a mounted stag's head. He took them through a long dining room where a maid was polishing cutlery, then a portrait gallery, before finally they entered a small room filled with bookshelves, cabinets and a finely carved desk. It would be an overstatement to call it a library, yet it was more than a study, holding close to two hundred finely-bound volumes. There was no fire in this room, but rather a large number of candles inside lanterns of metal and glass.

The man said something to Roseth and she pulled out Harry's map from the day before. He took it and held it up to the candle light, frowning as he examined it carefully before shaking his head and placing it on the desk. Then he opened a cabinet and took a large scroll from within, unrolling it to cover the entire desk and placing stones on its edges to keep it down.

It was a map, artistically hand-drawn but highly detailed nonetheless, annotated in a strange yet elegant script. The man waved Harry to his side and gave him a moment to look at the map.

"Gondor," he said, using his finger to circle a large area between a line of mountains and the coast. "Lebennin," he continued, now indicating the eastern part of Gondor, its frontier marked out by a large river. He then tapped his finger on a city sitting at the junction of the great river and one of its tributaries, close to the river's mouth. "Pelargir," he said, before tracing his finger up the tributary until it came to a small dot. "Duirro."

He looked to Harry, perhaps expecting a eureka moment, but Harry was at a complete loss, searching the map for any hint of a familiar landmass. There was nothing. He wasn't in Britain, that was for sure. He wasn't even in Europe.

Wherever he was, it wasn't on Earth.

* * *

><p>Two days passed, during which Harry didn't do much of anything. He would stay in bed until the late morning, rising lethargically to wander the village and the surrounding countryside, before returning several hours later to the inn. His evenings were spent in the common room, watching and listening.<p>

Roseth would sit with him after she had finished her chores, talking nonsense and teaching him new words. The innkeeper - Roseth's mother, Harry soon realised - did not much approve of her daughter's association with this strange foreigner, but her father took every opportunity to push them together. Harry was baffled by the whole affair, not least why Roseth continued to find him so interesting. He was hardly a stimulating conversation partner.

Each night, when the fires began to burn low, he went outside and watched the stars in the cool night's air. The sky was as clear in Duirro as it was above Hogwarts, but he couldn't find a single familiar constellation. The change in the stars convinced him more than anything else: he truly was on a different world.

He had no idea what to do next. Being lost without a wand was one thing. Even time travel, though a significant challenge, was something familiar to him. But Harry had never even contemplated the existence of other worlds, nor did he know how to even begin returning to his own. There were no wizards to help him here, no Hogwarts or Diagon Alley to find. He had no plan or purpose.

A dreadful possibility had occurred to Harry the night after visiting the tower, a possibility which had since become fixed in his mind. He had assumed, when he woke by the river, that he had survived Voldemort's curse. But what if he _hadn't?_

What if he was dead?

Harry knew better than most that death was not the end, having spoken to his parents' spirits only days ago. Though he didn't know what form the afterlife took, he was quite certain of its existence. But _this_ was not what Harry had expected. In those all-too-short seconds preceding his death, he had imagined opening his eyes to find his parents waiting for him in a place of peace and rest.

_This _world was not peaceful, and certainly not restful. He still needed to eat and drink. He still felt exhaustion and pain. He was lost and alone. Harry had not thought Dumbledore so literal when he called death an adventure.

If this place was the afterlife, it felt remarkably like being alive. The other people here were not ghosts, nor did any of them seem to think they were dead. And yet, Harry could think of no other explanation. It even explained the broken magic of the Marauder's map and two-way mirror, for the barrier between life and death could be breached only by the most potent and arcane magic. The snitch, on the other hand, required no connection to the living world to function - its magic was entirely self contained.

Harry might have continued thinking on the matter endlessly, had he not begun to run out of money. After spending his third night at the inn, Roseth's mother had demanded another sickle from him, which left him with a single silver coin in his pouch, plus a handful of knuts. Existential doubt gave way to practical need, and Harry began worrying about a different matter entirely: how he was going to survive. Selling his possessions was one possibility, but that would not solve his fundamental problem. He was spending silver but earning nothing. He needed a job.

It was on his fourth evening at the inn that an opportunity presented itself.

As usual, Harry was in the common room. A loud group of patrons was congregated by the bar; another group, this one gambling, occupied the tables directly in front of the fire. Harry sat near the second group, as close to the fire as he could get before he risked becoming involved in their games.

Most customers were regulars, now used to Harry's quiet presence, but each night would see two or three travellers arriving on tall horses and bearing messages. Sometimes the travellers would try to include him, but when it became clear that he spoke little of their language their enthusiasm dimmed rapidly. Harry preferred to avoid such embarrassment, so he kept to himself, eating quietly and waiting for Roseth.

He waited for quite some time, and had almost given up on her when she came thumping down the stairs and burst into the room with a wild look. She didn't even glance at Harry, but hurried behind the bar and whispered something to the maid there, who gasped with wide eyes. Roseth shushed her, took a bottle filled with a golden liquid from beneath the bar and ran back upstairs.

Harry raised his eyebrows and looked around, but if any of the other patrons had noticed they clearly did not think it worth worrying about, because they continued their games like nothing had happened. It seemed, however, that Harry would not be getting a language lesson that night. He tried not the feel glum, but with nothing else to do he found himself ordering another flagon of ale, spending one of his knuts to pay for it.

It wasn't wise to spend his money so loosely, but the long evening suddenly stretched before him without company or entertainment. As he sipped, Harry's mind turned back towards employment. If he'd had his wand, he would not have had any problems, for a wizard had many uses. Without one, however, he had few skills. He could read and write, but not in the language these people used. He could take care of plants, but he didn't have a garden or greenhouse. He could read the stars, but the sky here was different.

He was pondering the possibility of working as a cook when Roseth returned. At first Harry thought she had come to join him, but she walked past his table to a pair of travellers by the fire. She stooped down to speak with them privately, and whatever she said caused them to cry out in dismay. They rose quickly and followed Roseth out of the room, their drinks and game forgotten.

Harry's curiosity was piqued, that same insatiable _need to know_ that had led him to unravel the many mysteries that surrounded his life. It was both his bane and his most commendable quality. Something was going on, and Harry wanted to know what. So he followed at a distance, looking as if he was strolling casually back to his own room, but when he came to his own door he kept walking down the corridor, heading towards the hubbub of hushed conversation around the corner.

It turned out that Harry was not the only guest cursed with curiosity, for a small crowd had gathered around the open door to one of the bedrooms. Harry, fortunately, could see over them into the room, which held the innkeeper and her husband, Roseth and the two travellers from the common room.

A man was lying in the bed, blankets piled high on top of him, but even with the fire lit he was shivering and pale, a cold sweat on his brow. The travellers shared a grim look when they saw their companion, and they knelt down beside his bed to speak with him. As they did, Roseth pressed a damp cloth to his forehead.

The man was dying. Harry couldn't say how he knew, but there was something almost corpse-like to the man's pallor, and the air of the room was heavy with a feeling of decay. When Roseth met his eyes he could almost feel her trepidation and fear. The crowd outside the room had fallen silent.

That was when Harry had an idea.

"Don't let him die!" he called, and then he was off, running back the way he came, tumbling down the stairs and slamming open the door to the kitchen. It was a long, rectangular room of stone, its centre dominated by a pair of fire pits, above which large cooking pots hung. Two chimneys acted as ventilation, but even so Harry's eyes stung as he entered the smoky room.

A maid cried out in protest but he ignored her. He walked around the kitchen, opening cabinets and looking into the larder, muttering and nodding to himself.

If only Snape could see him now. "This might actually work," he said to the maid, who of course could not understand him. She was jabbering at him in her own language, pointing angrily at the door, but Harry didn't have time to explain. "I'm afraid I don't speak your language," he said distractedly, before grabbing a spare pot and placing it over the fire.

He searched his memory, closing his eyes in concentration. "A base of boiling water," he said to himself, dipping a jug into a barrel of water and transferring some to his pot. "And blood." A half-butchered rabbit was resting on one of the counters, its blood on the wooden board. Harry took the knife and flicked five drops of blood into his pot.

The mixture hissed and turned a deep, dark red. The maid gasped, her hand to her mouth. The kitchen door opened again and the innkeeper came through, gesturing wildly and shouting as soon as she saw Harry. Roseth followed, saw her mother advancing on Harry and grabbed her arm, holding her back.

"No time for this!" Harry said, and he left them to their argument. He looked at the herbs. Obviously they didn't have dittany, but that wouldn't have stopped the Half-Blood Prince. He could find a replacement. His eyes fell upon some dill and he remembered that it was supposed to have healing properties. "It'll have to do," he said, and he added it to his potion, stirring it clockwise with a ladle until the green plant dissolved. As it did, the potion lightened in colour.

Harry nodded in satisfaction. Next in were some lavender flowers and mint leaves, which he tore with his fingers and dropped from a height. The potion turned a light pink.

Harry relaxed, allowing the mixture to simmer for five minutes. The kitchen had gone quiet. Roseth was watching him with wide eyes, and her mother had stopped shouting, though she still looked highly suspicious. The maid was leaning against a counter with her hand held to her chest.

"Muggles," Harry said, his lips twitching, before he started to mix honey and water. It wasn't true honey-water, but it was close enough. More problematic were the porcupine quills - there was no way the kitchen would have any.

He looked around, hoping to find a similar animal like a hedgehog, but he had no such luck. Harry grimaced. Porcupine quills had a protective quality, without which he would simply have a moderately potent poison. They were essential. He could almost hear Snape's gloating voice in the back of his head, mocking him for his futile attempt.

"I'll just have to find something else," he muttered, and his eyes landed on a pile of nettles destined for soup. Like porcupine quills, a nettle sting was a defence mechanism. It wouldn't be as strong, but Harry thought it might just work. A glance at the bubbling potion told him it was time to add the honey-water, and he poured it in bit by bit, rapidly preparing the nettles between stirs. He was just about to add them when a memory of Snape's voice once again intruded.

"_Idiot boy! I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"_

Harry hauled the pot off the fire with a rueful grin, setting it down on the stone floor before slowly adding the nettles, alternating clockwise and anti-clockwise stirs. Each stir lightened the potion further until it was mostly transparent, with just a slight pink cloudiness to it. It was finished. He grabbed a goblet from a shelf and ladled the steaming potion into it.

He smiled at Roseth in a way he hoped was encouraging. She was looking at him like he was an alien. "Please tell me you don't burn witches," he groaned, the possibility not even occurring to him until that moment. "Too late now, I suppose."

He shrugged, then set off with the goblet in hand, leaving the kitchen and heading back upstairs. Roseth and her mother followed, the maid trailing behind them.

The crowd was still gathered outside the room, and had in fact grown in the twenty or so minutes Harry had been away. Roseth shouted something as he approached and they parted to allow him entry. The sick man was even paler than before, if that was even possible. His two companions still sat by his bedside and one of them holding a scroll of parchment and a quill, recording his friend's final words.

"Out of the way, please," Harry said, surprising them, and for a moment he thought they might stand in his way, but after a long moment they stepped aside, their eyes lingering on the steaming goblet in Harry's hand. He lowered it to the man's lips, and Roseth stepped forward to support his neck. "Drink," Harry ordered, his voice firm. The command carried across languages, and the man took a large gulp of the potion.

If it had been a true Pepper-Up potion, steam would have burst from his ears with the whistle of a kettle, a single swallow enough to destroy a fever. But Harry had made many compromises in the brewing process, and so the reaction was rather more subdued, light wisps of steam curling up from the man's pale skin. Even that was enough to make Roseth gasp.

"More," Harry said, and he tipped the goblet further. "You have to drink it all." The man drank deeply, more steam rising up from his pillow, and with each swallow colour seemed to return to his face. Finally he took one last gulp and Harry stepped back.

They waited. Minutes passed and nothing more seemed to happen, but finally the man blinked sleepily and sat up, saying something in a surprised tone. He held a hand to his forehead and spoke again, the crowd gasping at whatever he said. Then he threw the covers off his bed and moved to stand, his companions helping him. He wobbled slightly, but he was clearly well on the way to recovery, his eyes clear and his gaze sharp.

Harry was surprised to find himself looking _up_ at the man. Now the fever had broken it was clear that his patient was a man of great strength, tall and broad-shouldered. Something about him reminded Harry of the man in Duirro's tower.

He knelt down, took Harry's hand and kissed it.

"Istar," the man said reverently. The crowd whispered and lowered their eyes.

And that was how Harry found himself a job, gratefully accepting a gold coin from the travellers later that night. Word spread like wildfire, and from that evening onwards he became known as the healer-wizard of Duirro.


End file.
